Nurse The Hate

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

Nurse the Hate: The Railroad Trestle

There was a railroad trestle that ran over the stream.It had been built during the FDR Public
Works Program era in the early 1930s and harkened back to that time when things
were built to last.Thick beige
stonework provided sturdy support for the train tracks that ran above it.The structure was two large stone
tunnels, large enough for five men to walk down it shoulder to shoulder.Even in the heaviest rains the creek
would never fill the tunnels completely, but in the Spring it would produce a
lively current.A perky waterfall
was created by the flow of the creek through the trestle.Small colorful trout would feed under
the falls, gliding gracefully in the deep pool.

This was a known fishing spot.When trout season began, grizzled men would shake off the
winter and line up shoulder to shoulder to allow the trout to ignore their
baits.No one expected to catch
anything, but everyone felt good to be out of the house after the long bleak
winter.Occasionally heated
arguments would break out when lines tangled, but the men rarely came to
blows.After a few weeks, the men
would launch their boats into Lake Erie and forget about the little trout
spot.This left it to the teenage
boys with too much time on their hands.

There were two ways to get to the trestle.One was a twisting path through often
muddy trails in thick woods on a gradual descend to the creek bed.The other was a straight shot, right down the steep embankment
of the train tracks with the coal soot and rocks from the track bed.It was impossible to go that route
without becoming filthy, and there existed the possibility that by descending
that way, too much momentum would be created and you could fall from the top of
the trestle into the creek.This was
a fall of about 25 feet into a small deep pool of water.Ledges of shale jutted out from the shoreline
rocks, so a small miscalculation would be a major injury or possibly
death.This was part of the allure
of the trestle.

As a young teenage boy, it was important to keep your head
on a swivel while in the area of the trestle.This was a known gathering place for some of the roughest
kids in school, boys old enough to drive and smoke cigarettes.Andy and two twin brothers from near my
house would often perform spectacular leaps off the ledge into the water
below.It could not have been any
deeper than eight feet and likely about 15 feet across.There was little margin for error.The boys were aware of their audience
and would make flips as they fell into the pool.None of us would dare speak to those older boys much less
try that jump ourselves.We had
not yet earned the right to even attempt it in the presence of those boys.This was their turf.We would have to wait.

We usually hung out in the creek area below on the large rocks surrounding the creek.If we would hear the tough older kids
coming down the hill, we would hide in the woods until we could assess the
situation.If they were in a good
mood, they would sun themselves on the rock and smoke cigarettes and let us
goof around nearby.If they didn’t
appear in a good mood, we’d disappear into the woods like the Viet Cong.

One time a boy named Scott dared to step over what ever the
understood behavioral line was with these boys.This incensed the two twin brothers that insisted Scott prove he
“wasn’t a pussy” and jump off the trestle.Scott, a well-known pussy, was not in favor of the idea and
tried to come up with any possible excuse to avoid it.The bad news for Scott was that the
brothers were not going to accept “My Mom doesn’t want me to get wet” or “I
just don’t feel like it today”.They grabbed him and dragged him up the small hill. Scott struggled as they shoved him to the edge above the creek pool.Scott
pleaded with them to let him go.We all stood below the ledge looking up, afraid to even breathe.Scott started to cry.Andy said, “For Christ’s sake.Let’s let him go.”Scott began to sniffle but relax.He thought he was off the hook.However, Andy had just done this to
make Scott drop his guard.With a lunge he
shoved Scott off the ledge into the water.

Scott never made a sound as he fell off.He must have been as surprised as we
all were.It was obvious though
that he was falling at the wrong angle.He was going in feet first, but at a slanted jack knife angle.He was too far right.My heart leaped up into my throat.Scott hit the water, and at first it looked like
it might be OK.Scott went
under and then resurfaced.He
looked wrong though.He was pale
and gasping.That’s when I saw his
lower leg twisted at an unnatural angle.Blood began to fill the creek.His leg was broken.He
began to scream out in pain.There
was a general panic from all the boys surrounding the creek.

The older boys reverted back to the children they really
were and ran off, abandoning Scott.Scott’s brother and one of my friends were the fastest runners.They sprinted down the path in the woods to get
help. It was a long way though. Scott floated in the water
and grabbed onto a rock to avoid having to swim.Myself and another boy talked to Scott, trying to tell him
he was going to be OK, though we were just reciting back things we had heard on
TV.Scott was probably going into shock. After a long while, two fishermen
came down the path and pulled him out. Scott was laid out on the rock as they men swore and tried to stabilize the situation. A siren sounded far off. Dust started to appear at the top of the trestle as a paramedic van bounced down the railroad tracks. The paramedics brought a stretcher down and hauled Scott up the filthy hill with a rope.Being boys that
knew someone was going to get blamed for this as soon as the crisis dimmed, and most likely whoever was
standing there, we drifted back into the woods to disappear as they loaded Scott into the van. The lights flickered in the dust and the fading sun of dusk. We walked home assessing our grim chances of avoiding punishment.

My friends and I skated through with little more than angry questions about why we were there. The older boys got in trouble.They then blamed Scott for getting them in trouble, which was
generally agreed upon in the schoolyard.In retrospect, I think Scott was within his rights to tell the
paramedics and cops who had to haul him out of a creek with a compound fracture
who the person(s) were that had shoved him off a 25 foot fall into sharp
rocks.Yet, at that time, it was
more of a gray area open to great debate. The excitement faded as it always does.

We went back to the trestle after the heat cooled off.Scott was in a cast and it became old
news.The cops had chased off the
older boys.It had become our
place now.We would stand at the
top of the trestle looking down at the creek, replaying again and again what
had happened to Scott.The dare to
jump off into the water became very real once again.I never did it.If I ever get the chance, I am going to walk that path to that creek side
and take a look at that jump.Sometimes things aren’t as big as you remember them.I bet this is one of them.

Saturday, May 26, 2018

Nurse the Hate: Doug Sahm and Blown Minds

This afternoon I was driving around listening to an old Sir
Douglas Quintet CD.Yes, it was a
CD.One of the compromises I have
made in driving a car with too much everything is that I could only afford an
older version of this beast.The
Germans were extremely hesitant to provide any electronic creature comforts in
this car, and allegedly only provided drink holders very begrudgingly.Sometimes when you turn the car off and
sit in the silence, you can hear a German accented voice say “Why would we
provide distracting electronics when the experience of driving this automobile
is absolutely perfect?”.Hence, I
have to listen to CDs.

The Sir Douglas Quintet is one of Doug Sahm’s old bands, and
they are great.You are likely
familiar with “She’s About A Mover” and “Mendocino”, but each of the hard to
find albums is packed with meat.I
particularly like the records after Sahm arrived and set down roots in San
Francisco in the late 60s.The
language is awesome.“I’m Not That
Kat Anymore”, “Lord I’m Just A Country Boy Living In This Freaky City”, “Can
You Dig My Vibrations” and “You Can’t Hide A Redneck (Underneath That Hippie
Hair)” come to mind.He made the
kind of music I like, which is mashing together all of your influences to make
a distinctive voice.He manages to
take all his Texas home influences of rock, country and Mexican music and
became a pioneer of what was later called “Tex Mex”. Go out and get yourself some of this music.

The lyrics of this late 60s period are filled with songs
about “grooving” and things that are “heavy”.Almost every song has a mention about having your “mind
blown”.It was then I realized I
have not spent nearly enough time in my lyrics discussing having your “mind
blown”.I then reached out to
Krusty and Bobby Lanphier with this epiphany via text, asking them if I needed
to heavy up on “mind blowing”.Krusty attached the photo of Sahm in full cosmic cowboy regalia and then
contrasted that with me in a suit holding a bottle of Krug champagne.“You’re going to have to do a lot of
work on your look before you can seem credible talking about “blown
minds”.”He then noted the photo
of me from last week.“This guy is
going to talk to me about “blown minds”?C’mon.”At that point
Lanphier weighed in with “more like a guy talking to me about blown investment
opportunities”.

Those were both valid points.As much as I would like to insert an occasional “blown mind”
reference, it just might ring hollow.That’s a damn shame as I have had my “mind blown” a few times.Don’t even make me reference back to
that ill-fated space cake episode prior to a Swiss border cross while on
tour.Oh yes, my mind was
blown.My mind was mostly blown
because I thought a German TV program I was watching was about a man pimping
out his girlfriend so she could succeed in show business. In a number of scenes the boyfriend
offered her up for sex to strange men so he could advance his own agenda.It was a sick tale of betrayal and life
in the abyss.That's when Krusty turned me onto what it was all about. I was a little off. It turned out it was a home improvement program.Consider my mind blown!

I will just have to temper my desire to pepper in references
to “Sunday Groovers” and “freaks” in Daredevils songs.I don’t think I can make it sound organic.That’s a shame.What isn’t a shame is that the Daredevils will likely move ahead with
two new releases this year.We
have the record we recorded with Gary last summer, and before long the band is
going to have to get in the studio to record all the new material we have been
writing.We are also going to make
our return to Europe, as a plan is afoot right now for the end of
September/start of October to hit The Old Country.As I stated in my New Year’s Resolutions, I wanted to A)
make playing music fun again (check with the addition of Hector), B) lose 7
pounds (check as I knocked off 10), pass the WSET Diploma (check), and travel
to Burgundy.Ideally I would like
to get to France before the end of June thereby achieving all my goals in 6
months.We are getting shit done
and moving forward over here.If
you sit and think about it, it really sort of blows your mind. Damn. I guess I can't say that.

Thursday, May 24, 2018

Nurse the Hate: The NFL Anthem Fiasco

The NFL is generally adept at handling public relations
issues with expertise.I am not exactly
sure what happened with this National Anthem thing.Sure, they were in a difficult situation. If they did not act, players would continue to
protest police brutality and a segment of their customer base would freak
out.If they responded in too heavy
handed a manner, they would be viewed as trying to silence the players right to
peacefully protest in a democratic society.It came down to two choices.They
could have the players off the field during the anthem to sweep the issue into
the locker room OR they could force the players to stand at attention and levy
fines against the team for non-compliance.They chose the second option.

The players have voiced that they see this as their right to
expression being squashed and their employer not supporting their cause.The NFL has somehow made themselves bad guys
to all their players, and pitted the employees versus owners.Why they have backed these guys into a corner
is hard to fathom.They have taken what
was once a small issue and now given it new life.Making matters even worse for them was the
release of a video from January of a Milwaukee Bucks player being roughed up by
six cars of cops for no particular reason.Sure, he double parked at a Walgreens, but my guess is that not too many
suburban white guys get tased and arrested for that crime.If Jerry Jones of the Cowboys had a
nightstick shoved up his ass by six carfuls of cops after strolling out of
Target, my guess is he might be OK with taking a knee for “awareness” of that
issue.

My thought is that it might be a good idea just to scrap the
entire anthem.I have taken friends of
mine from other nations to major league sporting events.Seeing it through their eyes is
sobering.Imagine if you want to a
soccer match in Germany in 1938.Prior
to the game an enormous swastika flag is unfurled as members of the Hitler
Youth stand next to soldiers waving it as the anthem is played.At the conclusion of the anthem, a wave of
Luftwaffe bombers flies over the stadium to the roar of the crowd.Later in the first half, the Jumbotron
features photos of Wehrmacht troops with the announcer intoning instructions to
“remember our veterans and thank them for their service”.At halftime troops march out onto the field
to present certificates to recently returned soldiers.Whatever would be a German version of “Proud
To Be An American” booms from the speakers.An enormous swastika flag flies next to the scoreboard.It’s creepy as shit, right?What does any of it have to do with football?

The problem appears to be the disconnect between Trump
Nation and reality regarding what the flag represents.Somewhere after 9/11 many in the population
decided that The Flag=The Army.To not
hold any flag ceremony in the upmost reverence indicated you were somehow “against
the troops”.My understanding of the
flag was it represented the ideals of the nation in question.In the case of the United States that means the
right to protest, equality, and having a voice.Isn’t the most patriotic thing to not only allow the players to protest
during the pointless flag ceremony but support their right to do so?At no point have the participants in that
protest indicate they were against the nation.They are protesting paid employees of the nation killing them in their
communities unjustly.It’s a legitimate
issue.I would argue that they are more
active participants in what our nation is supposed to be about than anyone
screaming about how anyone that has ever been in a uniform of any kind is a “hero”
and are the ones being represented by a flag ceremony at a football game.

Nationalism is on a rise that doesn’t appear to be stopping
soon.The NFL owners caved in because it
was easier than fighting for principles.The Press is being attacked daily for reporting facts.The justice system is under siege for doing
their jobs.The ideals of this nation
are disappearing.Maybe you can’t
identify with the ones being silenced now, but if history shows anything, it’s
that you will identify with them soon enough.

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Nurse the Hate: Big Star

I think I bought the first two Big Star records at Singing
Dog in Columbus OH in the early 90s.I
had never heard the records but had read almost every musician I admired name
check them in the press over the last decade.If Paul Westerberg titles one of his best songs after you, that’s a
pretty good sign.I had some of those
Alex Chilton records that mysteriously popped out while I was a radio station
music director.The punk rock anarchist
in me liked those, and that song “No Sex” should have been a hit if it wasn’t
about the AIDS outbreak and include the lyric “come on baby, fuck me and die”.Somehow Big Star had passed me by.

There is a terrific Big Star documentary that came out and
details their horrible bad luck regarding their “#1 Record” named debut release
and subsequent records.In retrospect,
naming it “#1 Record” was likely a curse.I appreciate the sardonic wit though, and understood that record to be
the motherload.Chilton and primary
songwriter Chris Bell painstakingly crafted this record, each one of the songs
obviously slaved over by a group of people intensely focused on the end
result.These are guys that spent every night
in a studio trying different ideas and needing it to be absolutely
perfect.They came about as close as
four young men left to their own devices in Memphis can probably get.

The distribution fell apart almost immediately.They had a deal with Stax that went
South.Even the few people that had
heard of the record couldn’t find it in stores.It died on the vine without the public even getting a chance to hear it.
Chris Bell had a breakdown.He knew he likely could never hit those peaks
again.He took his shot and it missed,
despite it not being his fault.That’s
tough to live with…Chilton kept the
band going with the rhythm section for two more records.“Radio City” is probably underrated and has
more great rock pop songs on it.“Third”
is a difficult listen at first.It’s
these broken little fragments that Chilton gave to producer Jim Dickinson that
somehow assembled this stark, apocalyptic sounding record.It’s fragile and lonely.It’s really a beautiful record with no
commercial potential whatsoever.

When I first bought #1 Record and Radio City, I didn’t get
it.They sounded just like dated 70s
radio songs to me that I had somehow never heard.I listened to them a couple times and put
them away.They just didn’t
connect.Every year I would give them a
spin.Eh.What was the big deal here?Then, like most of the very best music, it hit
me.Holy shit.These records are brilliant.I am not sure why records that have the most
impact are not the most immediately appealing.They need some time to grow on you to reveal their depth.I have had similar experiences with “Highway
61 Revisited”, “Mendocino” and “Raw Power”.It’s the ones that find you when their time is right that become your
friends for life.

I’m sitting here listening to “Third”.It’s dark and raining.I am glad I found that record, and I suggest
you do the same.You might not be ready
yet, but you will one day.

Nurse the Hate: Hate The Cat

The cat had been a gift from her previous boyfriend.The boyfriend was a young man it was
easy to be dismissive of, with his passive aggressive manner.He seemed meek, but that was just a con. He always mentioned that he was either
coming down with an illness or in the midst of recovery.His dark sad eyes did the trick.When he would look up at her with those
wounded eyes, he would always receive comfort and attention.I, of course, hated him and by default
the cat he had left behind.

He always came up with reasons to come over to her house.Thoughtful little gifts for her
mother.Returned cooking
tools.Used books.It was always some flimsy manufactured
bullshit.If I happened to be
there at the time of his drop in, he would skirt to the sides of the room,
always avoiding direct contact with me.He would shift topics of conversation to his strengths, areas that I had
no experience or interest in.Chamber music concertos.Ethnic restaurant news.Foreign film expos.It was
a game that he pretended he was not playing.Just a nice fellow stopping by to offer considerate
gestures.No strings
attached.A quiet, thoughtful
young man.All the while the cat
would flick its tail while sitting in the windowsill.

I pretended it didn’t bother me, but it drove me
insane.I had never been in a
conflict with no offense, no visible battle. He was slowly gaining ground, working at solidifying his
return, consistently demonstrating that he was the true match for this woman
while I was some sort of beast.It
was easy to see.I preferred dogs,
while he was clearly a cat man.Every time that goddamn cat walked across the apartment, it was like
that passive aggressive young man strutted across the room declaring “I’m still
here.”.

The cat must have sensed my growing distaste for it.If I slept over at the apartment, the
cat would come roaring into the room at an ungodly hour and dive on my
head.It was like being attacked
by a mongoose in the middle of a deep sleep.This did not help solidify a bond between the cat and
I.In the morning, the cat and I
would glare at each other while the woman obliviously sipped herbal tea.

Making matters even worse, the cat loved the passive
aggressive man.Theirs was a
mutual admiration society.I would
feel a slow burning fury when the cat jingled over to greet him when he dropped
by with one of his thoughtful little presents.“Oh, I just saw this used booklet of French poetry I thought
your sister might like… Sure, I would love a glass of wine!”The cat purred on his lap as he slowly
sipped his wine.He would never
risk the outright aggression of smiling triumphantly at me when the woman left
the room, but I swear to you that cat did.

Eventually he wedged me out of there, like we both knew he
would.I was ill-equipped for this
drama.I was a man from the late
20th Century that was taking part in an 18th Century
parlor drama.I didn’t know the
rules.It was like an act from the
old theater productions they both loved whereas I was immersed in the films of
Coppola.I should have flipped the
script and gone Godfather.“Pauley?Oh, you won’t see
him round here no more…”

The last time I was ever in that apartment I remember walking
to the kitchen table to retrieve my car keys.There was a small round bistro table by the window.It was one of those garage sale finds where
if I had put it in my house it would have looked like garbage, but she had magically
transformed it into something artsy and wonderful with a dash of paint.The cat was stretched out across that
table, my keys right in front of its head.He flicked his tail with his eyes serenely closed.As I put the keys in my hand he opened
his eyes and I swear he smiled at me.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Nurse the Hate: Texas School Shooting

As we know from past experience, now is “too soon” to
discuss the consistent gun massacres in schools, the thought being that
emotions are too raw.We missed
that brief window between the last one and this one when talking about guns
would have been acceptable.What
no one is saying is that because of the routine of these shootings, it is
becoming harder and harder to muster any legitimate emotions.The Public becomes immune to the story
after hearing it enough times.Remember a couple of years ago when the population was flipping out
because the President of the United States was telling lies?Now it is just a known quantity and is
essentially accepted as The Way Things Are.School shootings have become the same.

I hardly even glanced at the headline when it scrolled
across.School shooting reported
in Texas.Yawn.I knew the basic story line.Quiet kid showed up at school with
guns, shot a bunch of classmates and probably killed himself.Interviews with crying teenagers.Whatever.My brain is now able to shove that in the same place as
“Mexican Earthquake Claims 17 Lives” and “Tragic Plane Crash In Cuba”.School shootings are just part of the
daily mosaic of the news cycle.It's a concept and not a real thing. I
feel much more outrage when I see the castrated politicians offer up their empty
promises and false grief.

Trump immediately said the administration would do
“everything in our power” to protect schools and keep guns away from those who
should not have them.Even if a
moment of righteousness somehow flickered across that man’s brain, by this
weekend the NRA will have him in line with their talking points.I predict “a pivot” into suggesting
this is a mental health issue, not a gun issue, and we need to do more to
combat mental health issues.As
mental health issues are mostly undetectable, this is essentially vowing to
protect a town from floods by offering to combat the rain.

“We are with you in this tragic hour and we will be with you
forever…” was offered up on the President’s Twitter feed.I can translate this into “This is the
gesture of empathy that the office dictates I make, and I am hoping this blows
over by Tuesday as I have already forgotten about it as have most other
Americans”.Fore!I barely glanced at the story, as I
already know how it ends.The
bottom line is that not enough people care.We have decided that thousands of shooting victims are an
acceptable trade for gun enthusiasts to maintain their fantasies of vigilante
justice where they are cast as heroes. Come and take it. Ka-pow!

Wal Mart Nation has the steering wheel in this country right
now.America is becoming greater
every day.It’s pre-facism with a
redneck fashion streak.Self-delusion
and ignorance rule the day.There
is no reason to believe this gun violence problem will be addressed because we
have decided that no problem exists.The same old rhetoric will get tossed back and forth next week with no
movement in any direction.The gun
manufacturers will stick to their playbook of letting things cool down so the
simpleminded populace will back burner the issue.If the gun companies get lucky they might convince the
lunatics in office to spend millions on guns for schools, turning lemons into
lemonade if you will.Score!

This weekend they will bury ten kids in Texas.Crying parents will vow to fight for
change.Politicians will
hide.Cable news will devolve into
pointless side squabbles about gun categorization, the false beliefs
surrounding the Second Amendment, various smoke screens, and NRA spokespeople dropping their flimsy talking points into the
stew.We’ve seen this before.Yawn.Change the channel.It’s just The Way Things Are.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Nurse the Hate: WSET Diploma, Completed

One of the great disappointments of this particular era is
that personal news is often delivered via email.I found it to be a bit anti-climatic to
receive an email on my phone that I had passed my sparkling wine exam with
merit and thus passed the WSET Diploma.Immediately after my brief moment of triumph a smiling waitress asked if
I wanted more iced tea.I thought it
would be different.When I had pictured
this moment, it was with me ripping open an envelope reading an overly formal
letter while standing by my mailbox, not seated at the restaurant
“Melissa”.Further dampening the moment was
the email said, “Congratulations Troy!You have passed your exam!”.Wait…Did I pass or did
Troy?Who the fuck is Troy?It turned out after several anxious minutes
and a clarifying email exchange, that not only did Troy pass, but I did as well.I guess my “iced tea re-fill of triumph” was
justified.

I sat at my seat at the counter with my salad and tea.All that work, and here was the moment of
payoff.I think I had a flicker of
accomplishment for about 7 seconds before that faded.I had five more hours left of work.It was Tuesday.I was sitting there by myself.Most importantly, I didn’t feel like I had
succeeded.The waitress had this
permanent yet genuine smile that had to be caused by either chemicals or a
groovy yoga Zen.“Is everything good
over here?”This placed me at the
crossroads of saying, “It’s really good because I just found out I somehow
passed the WSET Diploma, which is something I couldn’t possibly explain to
you.” Or “Yes.Everything’s fine.”.I opted for the latter.

Rumor has it there are only something like 4000 people in
the world that have passed this exam since the program started up in the late 1970s.Part of the reason there are so few people is
that I am sure it took a couple decades to get some traction and allow people
to know outside of England that the program existed.The other reason is that it is very
difficult.I don’t care about soil types
or geological characteristics of locations in general.When I first arrive at a new place, I
normally don’t take soil samples.Yet,
this program forced me to remember all kinds of subtle soil differences.I have used the word “schist” more often than
I thought possible.That information
didn’t want to go in my head, but I pounded it in there.

Who wants to talk about long term oxidation of the
sangiovese grape in Brunello and the variances possible with different barrel
selection?No one?Well, I can if you’d like.No?How about the effect of morning fog on the Semillon grape in regard to
botrytis in Sauternes?Would you like me
to tell you why a bottle of Chateau D’Yquem is so expensive and yet still
underpriced?Sit right down my
friend…While you wait let’s have a
quick breakdown of low oxygen, low temperature fermentation within stainless steel for Northern Italian whites and the
criminal over cropping in Soave.I’m
sorry.Did I wake you?It never ends.

So, why did I feel so empty?The problem is now two-fold.I
had anticipated becoming some sort of expert in wine.I suppose I am now.However, what I did not anticipate was that
the more I learned, the more I realized I did not know.I feel like I have only scratched the surface
and the problem is now that I will run out of time before I run out of
information.I have come to the painful
realization I cannot ever truly master this subject matter as the waters run
deeper than first estimated.So now
instead of feeling like “Ah-ha!I’ve
done it!”, I feel more along the lines of “You fucking fraud.You don’t know a goddamn thing.”.

The other issue is that I am perhaps too competitive.I am not sure how I turned wine into a
competition, but I have done it.It is
sort of like Leo’s idea of “competitive yoga”.Inserting competition into something that has no obvious measurement is
a very Whiskey Daredevil thing to do.I
have to win.My thinking now is that
since thousands of people have done what I have done, what’s the big deal?What have I accomplished?How can I beat these other people that are
unaware I am competing with them?The
answer is obvious, by trying to breathe the rarified air of becoming a Master
of Wine.

There are 38 Masters of Wine in the United States.Ever.The exams are legendarily difficult.I spoke with a woman that failed her last tasting exam partly because
her mouth had broken out in lesions due to a combination of stress and too much
wine tasting preparation.There are
stories of grown men weeping.The
challenge is so absurd, to essentially store into memory an entire planet of
wine production’s tiny details while understanding how these parts all fit
together.Meanwhile you must be able to
identify wines blind in a swift, decisive and most importantly, accurate manner.All the while there is an undercurrent of not
being worthy to join this secret society.A difficult entrance exam must be passed just to have the opportunity to
enter the program so you can torture yourself with further impossible exams.You need to have a written recommendation
from an existing MW, just like trying to get into a Mason’s Lodge.Most MWs I have met look at me like I am a
circus freak.It would be hurdle after
hurdle after hurdle just to get in for the chance to fail.Clearly, this is something I will need to
beat.

The nagging question is whether the organization would be
willing to allow me to even attempt to enter.In many ways, I represent the exact opposite of what has been the
traditions of the wine world.There is a
certain pomp and circumstance that exists that doesn’t always mesh with my more
punk rock sensibilities.When I see
authority figures, my first inclination is to try to knock them down.Blame Joe Strummer, Jello Biafra, and Hunter S.
Thompson.I don’t tend to want to join
clubs that want me as a member.Yet, I
clearly have the passion and the ability to succeed in this endeavor if given
the opportunity to apply myself.I must somehow
trick these people into letting me in.

I have succeeded in getting the Diploma.Why do I think the real struggle has only
just begun?

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Nurse the Hate: The Gin Job

5.15.2018

Hayman’s Distillery
8a Weir Road
London
SW12 0NA

Gentlemen,

First let me say that I am flattered by your interest in
having me represent your gin to the no doubt wonderful people of Scotland.I am certain I could build a natural
rapport with the people as soon as I could figure out what they are saying.I will be upfront and tell you that I
have had limited interaction with Scottish people.Between us, I even had difficulty making sense of what the
members of The Proclaimers were saying in interviews during their heyday, and
my guess is that they were trying their best to allow an American record buying
public understand what they were saying.I’m thinking I will have a bit of a learning curve trying to sell gin to
people that prefer scotch while not having a clue to how the conversation is
going.Maybe for the first 6
months I could just “stick to the script” but if some customer says “haud yer
wheesht” it will be an uncomfortable situation when I just blather on about the
botanicals in the spirit.I just
want to set your expectations right out of the gate here.

The other stumbling block is my general distaste for gin
after a series of “incidents” in my late teens.An associate of mine at the time, a Mr. James Jazz, had
decided that it would be in our mutual best interests to embrace gin as a
recreational beverage.He believed
it to be an excellent choice when mixed with off-brand cranberry juice.For a brief moment, this “New Golden
Age of Gin” appeared to have endless possibilities.Soon it denigrated into madness.In retrospect, the move from rapidly drinking “value priced”
beer into bottom shelf gin was a step backwards as the later written song by a
Mr. Snoop Dog (a.k.a. “Snoop Lion”) would attest.I will tell you with great authority that an overserved
young man throwing up gin and cranberry juice in the early hours of the morning
will believe he is throwing up blood and think he requires immediate medical
attention.Thus ended the “New
Golden Age of Gin”.

Yet, I remain intrigued with your offer of employment.As you no doubt have learned from my
WSET Overlords, I am tantalizingly close to having earned the coveted WSET
Diploma, something here in the United States that almost no one
understands.For the last time,
“No, I am not a sommelier”.It
might have been worth being tested on opening a bottle of champagne in a fine
dining situation in a Court of Master Somm exam just so I wouldn’t have to
explain what a WSET Diploma is to people that stop paying attention
mid-explanation.You can’t go back
in time though.I have only a
small handful of regrets in life, and choosing the WSET is not one of
them.(If a member of the WSET
grading staff is somehow reading this, please remember to “keep it fair” when
you get to my sparkling exam.I clearly knew
how sekt was made. I thought by "discuss production" you meant the end results. If you can let me slide on that, I’m sure we can have a few
laughs over it later this year in London where I can buy you a steak at The
Ivy.Seriously, it’s my
treat.Order whatever you’d like…)The bottom line is I know enough about
gin to be dangerous.

But what of a new life in Scotland?As you no doubt have learned via my
Ancestry.com results, I am 78% English.Besides finding myself suddenly infatuated with the Royal Wedding this
weekend as well as almost breaking out in hives over the football matches, I am
embracing what is clearly a genetic desire to take advantage of the people of
Scotland and Ireland.It is
perhaps my destiny to levy the Scots with crippling alcohol prices and
taxation.I would be fulfilling a
genetic imperative by accepting this position.However, I need to temper this immediate enthusiasm with a
healthy dose of reality.I am
going to require a wage well above what you are alluding to in your
correspondence.I have grown to
become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and I am not going to move into a
depressing two room flat in Edinburgh just to fulfill my destiny like some sort
of alcohol toting salmon.The
image of me coughing in the consistent rain trying to choke down a blood
sausage in my flat while my indifferent cat looks on is too grim to think of
for more than just a moment.In
this scenario, I name my cat “Mr. Bigglesworth” and he always moves away from
me if I try to touch him.Doesn’t
sound like much fun, does it?

With this in mind, I am going to have to decline your
offer.Once again, I thank you for
your consideration.I wish you the
best of luck in extending the reach and market share of the brand.Your gin is no doubt a delightful way
to spend an evening in Scotland surrounded by largely cheerful yet unintelligible
friends.I wish you the best of
luck.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Nurse the Hate: Hate the Quality Inn

“Hello Greg!Would you like to review your recent stay at Quality Inn?”

Friends,

First of all please allow me to say how much I appreciate
you requesting my feedback on my recent hotel stay.I had always quietly suspected that you were interested in
my experiences and you were not just a faceless internet travel reservations
company.This correspondence to me
today only solidifies the deep and rich feelings of affection I have for your
company.You care about me, not as
a customer, but as a man.In a cold
world where a true connection is almost impossible, you have only confirmed the
deep feelings we have for one another.I thank you.I wish we
could have a long embrace where neither of us spoke, but only let the moment
pass between us.I wanted you to
know that.

My recent stay…yes, where do I begin?That
evening we had played a rock and roll show in Erie Pennsylvania.Being people involved in the travel
industry, you are no doubt well versed on Erie and the wild underground rock
culture that is well hidden from view of the unsuspecting public.There are some true degenerates there,
as you no doubt know.However, I
use the word “degenerate” as a term of affection in this case.It is not often in today’s world where
one can perform heartfelt personal songs written in an Ohio basement to a room
stuffed full of people in the depths of massive LSD trips.From my vantage point, it appeared that
a few of these people needed a psychedelic captain, as the trip we took them on
was not the one they had intended. A man in a cowboy hat wildly yelling into a
microphone about The Devil, the Consequence of Choice, and cat pajamas is not
something many of them were prepared for.

I was unaware that LSD had made a comeback.As Erie often stubbornly holds onto the
past, maybe it never left.More
likely it is a case of these rugged individualists making their own fun in a
dreary rainy evening.I know that
The Kids like smoking marijuana of increasing strength nowadays.The wise sage Chris Crofton recently
noted that young people today like to smoke pot that makes them feel like
radioactive coconut crabs.I
suppose when you feel like a radioactive coconut crab on a daily basis, when
the weekend hits, you want to take it up a notch.I think that a few of these folks greatly underestimated the
rocket ship they climbed onto.I
have a slight regret about telling one of them I could see into the future like
a witch.That was a lot for this
kid to deal with on a Friday.I
hope she got home OK.

My game plan was to drive back to be crisp and refreshed for
a wine event on Saturday.As a man
that is believed to know what he is talking about in regards to wine quality, I
can’t be sleep deprived calling some crappy Central Coast California Cabernet
“transcendent” when it’s something that shouldn’t be used to wash your
car.Look, no one should even use
the word “transcendent” in regards to wine anyway, as that only confirms that
negative perceptions about so-called “wine experts”.I’m not above pulling out fluffy language if I’m tired as
shit though.I will bluff my way
through a room of people if I have to.It’s only because you and I are so close that I will admit this to you.There are many dark corridors in my
soul.I know you accept me for who
I am, so I will unburden myself with this painful admission. Let’s get down to
brass tacks, shall we?

Just to check my options, I checked your helpful mobile
app.It was there I discovered the
bargain rate of $46 for the Quality Inn.Despite some trepidation, I clicked “accept” and locked the band in for
a night so I could avoid the overnight drive.I knew this would not be a four star experience, but I was
just looking for six solid hours of sleep in an atmosphere where I wouldn’t
question if a prostitute had been murdered in the bed within the last 48
hours.I think $46 should allow me
that piece of mind.As the hotel
was nowhere close to an airport, that only confirmed my gut feeling of
minimizing the potential of sleeping on a murder site.I drove us to the hotel with a serene
mindset.

I could immediately tell the Quality Inn was one of those
franchises that was owned by an Indian immigrant.I wish I understood why there exists a population of people
in India that decide their path in life is to move to the United States to buy
a two star hotel and then put as little money as possible into the upkeep.There must be seminars in New Delhi
where a classroom of people are studiously taking notes like “Do not replace
any carpet.Regardless of the
circumstance, do not update any plumbing.Make sure and buy the absolute cheapest soap for the rooms.”I almost took one of the business cards
from the thoughtfully provided six stacks of cards near the front door to tell
Mr. Patel what a fine job he was doing maintaining the lowest possible
standards as per his seminar teachings.

A pointlessly confrontational desk clerk checked us in.Walter was like a flesh and blood
version of Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons.Despite Sugar’s somewhat charming plea for a bag of pretzels
from the outsized snack box visible behind the counter, Walter would not
surrender the .11 cent snack.“That is for preferred members.You are NOT preferred members.You have a pre paid internet rate.”Walter then told us the only food available was from the
dated vending machines down the hallway.Sugar then made another case for a comp snack, was refused, and received
4 quarters change from the visibly annoyed Walter.

When we arrived at the 1990-styled snack machine, we
discovered it would not accept coins.Walter gave Sugar change knowing damn well it would prevent her from
getting the snack she was targeting.Walter has his little games.Luckily for Sugar and Leo, I had two singles.In a nice passive aggressive profit seeking strategy, Mr.
Patel had priced many of the snacks at $1.05 to insure that guests would insert
$2 and then not receive any change.What a wily operator!Sugar
chose the Lance Cheese Crackers, whereas Leo went for the chocolate peanut
butter wafer cookies.Delightful.

The hotel appeared to have two sections, Smoking and Heavy
Smoking.The entire place smelled
like my Mom’s old VW Beetle in 1978.An odd combination of Marlboro Red and hairspray.Our room had the cheer of a minimum
security prison.It would have
been an excellent place to film a budget porn movie, but one with a specific
kink like midgets or foot worship.If you listened closely, you could hear crying in the adjoining
room.To combat that we turned on
the low def TV and to our joy found a Dolemite movie.We fell asleep to the sound of rain falling off the roof
onto a loose piece of metal outside our window.

There was a complimentary breakfast, but I suspected the
rations would have been a choice of Froot Loops from a plastic container and
powdered eggs served on white Styrofoam plates.I decided for the good of the band to let them sleep past
the dining hours as I scrolled though pictures on social media hoping to catch
a glimpse of something interesting.I took a shower as a way to wake the kids up where I discovered the
temperature options of the water were limited to “icy slush” or “flesh ripping
hot”.The good news was I didn’t
have to choose between the two as the shower thoughtfully veered back and forth
at its own pace.The industrial
strength soap made me feel somewhat clean though I am concerned about the rash
that broke out.The towels smelled
slightly less sour than I expected.All and all, an acceptable experience.

I would rate the Quality Inn as meeting but not exceeding
expectations.Obviously my
expectations were quite tempered, so make sure to allow other potential guests
know their experience will be defined by their own mindset going in.Once again, thank you for contacting me
for my feedback.I really feel
like our relationship is entering a new phase.You are not someone running away from intimacy, but running
towards the bright shining light.I welcome our future together.

Thursday, May 10, 2018

Nurse the Hate: Jim's Dad

Jim’s Dad died in a hot air balloon accident, which was
unusual for a man born in this town.The official story was that the flame went out on the propane tanks due
to an equipment malfunction, but it was understood by those in the know that
his old man was drunk and forgot to change the tanks out from the previous
day.He just ran out of fuel.The gondola slammed into a hillside
killing Jim’s father and severely injuring the honeymooning couple he was
captaining.Jim had a perverse sense
of pride in the story and liked that his father had perished in such
spectacular fashion.Quietly
wilting in a hospice was not really his style.

His father was a man that thought of himself as a modern
embodiment of Hemingway.He was a
man that liked to fish, drink and be the loudest voice in the room.He wore a short cropped mustache and
weathered salt stained fishing cap.The effect made him look more like Quint in “Jaws” than Hemingway, but
he would have liked that too if he’d known.When we were kids he would roar us out to past the break in
his boat where we’d fish for stripers.He’d put the radio on to the Big Band station and get excited if a Duke
Ellington number came on.We’d
stay out until the sun began to set in firehouse red and pumpkin orange skies.I always thought it was so cool that
he’d let Jim dock the boat when we came in. It wasn’t until years later I recognized that he let Jim do
it because he was too drunk on the cans of Pabst he fired though all afternoon
to dock it himself.

Jim’s Old Man was living in the boat one summer.He pretended that it was because he
loved the water so much that he wanted to spend the summer down at the
dock.The real reason was that
Jim’s mom had caught his Dad fooling around with his receptionist.His Dad and the receptionist had a
regular Thursday at the Quality Inn for about 18 months before his Mom caught
wind of it.I remember the
receptionist showing up at one of Jim’s and my Little League games once.She smelled like coconut oil and when
she smiled you felt good.She disappeared
after that summer down on the dock.

Jim’s Dad used to eat at this place called The Sloppy Duck,
right down from the dock.It was
one of those clam shacks that did great tourist business.All the yokels from inland would think
they were having an authentic island meal.Almost all the fish was frozen brought in by that front
company that went under when they finally broke the Whitey Bulger mob.Jim’s Dad, his buddy Sully, and
whatever other guy in trouble with his wife was bunking on the boat would watch
the Sox on that grainy color TV by the bar.That was the summer that Louis Tiant and Spaceman Lee had
great stuff.Jim and I would
pretend to be Tiant, aping his windup and tossing rocks into the surf.When Jim’s Dad was a few beers in and
the Sox were winning, he’d give us change for the pinball machine.It was a Gottlieb “Royal Guard”
machine.I bet my high score still
stands.

I slowly fell out with those two.We got older, Jim’s Dad moved back home and eventually got
divorced.I lost touch with Jim
after I went to college in the city.I had heard his Dad moved West but I didn’t know anything about that hot
air balloon business.I guess he
saw an ad in the back of some magazine while he was waiting at his
dentist.He thought about it
during his root canal, called the number from the ad, and just like that was in
the hot air balloon business in Napa California.He was an impulsive man. He drove straight across the country starting the next morning. I don't think Jim knew he'd done it until The Old Man had already figured out how to fly the damn thing a couple weeks later.

I just saw Jim over the holidays.I stopped by his store.There behind the counter were a couple pictures of his Old
Man, framed in memoriam.In one
he’s older than I remember, smiling in a gondola waiting to lift off in his
balloon.In the other, he’s just
like I remember him.Fuller faced
with a broad mustache.He has that
filthy cap on his head grinning ear to ear with his hands on the boat’s
steering wheel.Jim told me over
beers at the Sloppy Duck that the picture was taken that summer he was living
down here on the dock.We were
sitting in the same stools that Jim’s Dad and Sully used to sit in. Jim cleared his throat and said he
misses his Dad every single day. We
raised our bottles to The Old Man and took a deep pull of cold beer.Then it was quiet.We sat not saying anything for a time
and watched the Sox on the TV above the bar.

Monday, May 7, 2018

Nurse the Hate: Hate Surf Music

When we played Southgate House the other night, I saw a
really good surf band called The Madeira.I recognized the sound of the lead guitar player, but it didn’t hit me
until later that he was from the Space Cossacks, one of the noteworthy bands
from what I think of as The Second Golden Age Of Surf.Yes, there was once a time in the mid
to late 90s when if you threw a rock, you’d hit a surf band.It was likely a reaction to the Garage
Rock Revival mixed with Pulp Fiction.Suddenly, great surf bands were everywhere.The Phantom Surfers, Galaxy Trio, Laika and the Cosmonauts,
Phantom 5ive, Exotics, Volcanos, and the Bomboras all come to mind.There’s another dozen I’m forgetting at
the moment.Then suddenly, they
were gone…

The Phantom Surfers had a record from that time called “The
Great Surf Crash” that made light of it.The wheels just completely came off.Like a meteor that came to earth killing the mighty dinosaurs,
the Surf Revival disappeared.It
happened all at once too, sort of like when swing died.It was everywhere and then gone.I always loved playing with surf bands
as I think their often grand cinematic style is a good ying to our yang on a
double bill.

When surf modestly came back that first time, many of the
legends of the original movement suddenly found themselves in demand.We played on bills with Davie Allen and
the Arrows and The Trashmen.The
Ventures hit the road.However,
the biggest and most important name of them all was Dick Dale.Dick Dale isn’t called the King of the
Surf guitar for nothing.He was,
and is, a monster player that revolutionized the entire idea of surf
music.I remember how psyched we
were to play with him the first time.I assumed that it would be a one time deal, that we would never have
that chance to see or play with him again.That was probably 1996.

The first time we played with him was at Wilbert’s.That was a great club during its run,
but it was not blessed with the largest stage.When we arrived to the club for the show with Dick Dale, we
discovered that he and his band had already set up his gear and
soundchecked.They left the gear
on stage leaving us literally no place to set up.Whereas they could have pushed the amps and drums back even
18 inches to allow us a modest area to stand perfectly still and play, they
didn’t even allow that.I was
forced to go speak to Dick Dale’s road manager, who at the time was his young
girlfriend of about 25 years of age.“Hey, we aren’t going to be able to set up to play.Would it be possible to move the gear
back about 18 inches?We could
even do it for you and then move it back when we are done.”The woman looked at me and freaked out.“Oh my god!I’m going to have to talk to Dick!”.Her experience and role model for the
position of “road manager” was Ian Faith of the band Spinal Tap.

Now I was thinking this request was no big deal.I thought this because it literally was
no big deal.It would have
required no effort on the band’s part.Beyond that, (most) bands try to maintain a communal spirit in that we
are all trying to help each other succeed.A rising tide raises all boats.This was a different animal as I discovered.I watched from across the room as Dick,
his girlfriend, and his band huddled for 15-20 minutes.It was an animated conversation.I have no idea what could have taken so
long.Ultimately the girlfriend
was sent over to tell us in a very terse voice “We are willing to move back six
inches, but THAT’S IT!”.

This had somehow managed to reach a compromise that solved
nothing. I watched the guys in his band move his amps back the prescribed six
inches and still leave multiple feet of absolutely dead space between the back wall
and amp. It was totally pointless.The six inches did not provide the additional space we needed so we
could set up our drums.They were also pissed because we were not acting deferential
enough.I then sidled up to Mike
Miller, the owner of the club, and told him we couldn’t play because we
literally couldn’t all stand on the tiny space they had allotted us.A second summit was convened.

The solution that Mike and Dick Dale’s girlfriend came up
with was for several milk crates to be pushed to the edge of the stage.I was to stand on these four wobbly
crates, making the ultimate low budget catwalk jut out slightly from center
stage.This was deemed to be a
more logical solution than to move three pieces of equipment and additional 18
inches within the four feet of space available, and move them back prior to
Dick Dale’s performance.It was
probably the most outrageously stupid rock show thing I have ever been or will
be a part of.

After the show everyone was more relaxed.Dick Dale was awesome.He came out and blew through all the
monster instrumentals, just destroying.I spoke to him briefly and said how much we enjoyed his show.Dick Dale looked at me and said something
like, “Well, Dick Dale loves to play for people.” as if he wasn’t Dick
Dale.I had not heard third person
being spoken like that since Allen Iverson.I wasn’t really sure how to respond and gave out some
complimentary double talk.

It was about 9 months later when we played with Dick Dale
again, this time at the beloved Stache’s in Columbus.It was a much bigger stage at Stache’s, but we still had to
deal with limited space in front of their set up.As we had been expecting it and somehow survived the
Wilbert’s show, this seemed like being placed out on a sports arena stage.I could really get into it with some
rock star moves up there, as long as I limited them to two steps in either
direction.

I don’t recall very much about that show.I’m sure Dick was good.He’s always good when he crushes his
best originals.The thing I
remember best was after the gig standing with him backstage.It was just the two of us.I had not spoken to him to that point
and he looked at me.He must have
remembered the cowboy hat.“You
know, when Dick Dale saw that you guys were on the bill, Dick Dale wasn’t too
sure about it.Dick Dale
remembered having a hard time with you guys last time.But Dick Dale didn’t have any problem
tonight.”

I looked at Dick and said, “Hey, that’s great.We had a great time tonight.But I am a little confused.You keep talking about “Dick Dale”…I thought YOU were Dick Dale.”I kept my face completely
expressionless.Dick looked at me
sort of incredulously and then with a flash of anger.I just stared back.He suddenly broke into a little grin.“Oh…I see
now.I see.You’re being funny!”.He slapped my shoulder.“Dick Dale thinks you’re OK.”

We probably played with him another 10 times with varying
degrees of successful interaction.We got yelled at once because he thought we had delayed a veggie pizza
he had ordered, though it didn’t make sense as to how. He once insisted we only
play a 25 minute set and then waited 75 minutes to go on after we had finshed.I did have some wild deep conversations
with him after shows at the Grog Shop.He had a deep spiritual bent, and a great interest in native
culture.He’s an interesting
man.We played with him a few
years ago and he was still as good as he ever was, this despite me knowing and
reading about multiple health threats.I read an interview he gave recently about how even at 80 years old he
needs to stay on the road to fund his medication and treatments he needs to
stay alive.Dick Dale should be
able to choose when and where he’d like to play at this point, not have to play
by necessity.I’m sorry he’s in
that situation.

Right before I ducked out of The Madeira’s set, the guitar
player announced to the crowd with a big smile.“Do you know what yesterday was?It was a very important day.”.As the day prior was May 4th, I was thinking I
was about to see a very unlikely surf cover of Neil Young’s “Ohio”.“It is Dick Dale’s birthday!He is 81!”The crowd all applauded and then they played a Dick Dale
obscurity.It was nice to hear
them toss a nod to Dick Dale.It
was even better to hear live surf music being done that well.I’ve missed it.

Friday, May 4, 2018

Nurse the Hate: My Favorite TV Show

The best show on television right now is the circus
surrounding Donald Trump.It’s one of
those difficult shows to follow if you aren’t dialed in, like if David Lynch
produced “Lost” and you first turned it on during the third season and expected
to understand what is going on.All of
what I am about to type seems unbelievable, but that’s what makes this the “can’t
miss” program of the TV season.It’s “Must
See TV”.

In the last few days, the President of the United States
brought on a possibly mentally unstable Rudy Giuliani as a member of his legal
team.Giuliani promptly went on TV reversing
course on the previous version of events regarding Stormy Daniels and
volunteered that Trump knew Cohen had paid off the porn star and Trump had also paid Cohen
back via multiple payments.He also
added there was another $300K of payments to other individuals that had not
even been reported yet.Why he offered
this up without being asked on live TV was difficult to explain.

The White House pretended that this was exactly what they
had planned all along, despite every other person that worked at the White
House being completely blindsided.The
President then tweeted a confirmation of Rudy’s version of the events. This flies
directly in the face of the video of Trump on Air Force One previously being asked if he knew
about the payments to the porn actress and him saying “No”.

Today in a wild story twist, Trump went back to his original version and claimed
Giuliani “didn’t have his facts straight” as if he hadn’t confirmed what
Giuliani had said just the day before.“Virtually
everything said has been said incorrectly, and it’s been said wrong, or it’s
been covered wrong in the press.” said Trump.While the sentence itself is baffling, it’s especially confusing as what
has been said has been recorded directly coming from the mouths of the
participants.When he is referring to
things “being said incorrectly”, he also must be referring to himself as he has
at one time or another supported every version of this story.Trump, who often refers to himself in third
person, has now entered the surreal by calling himself out as not speaking
accurately about himself.The point has
now been reached where even Trump cannot follow the storyline he has
created.

Giuliani released a statement today that said “references to
timing were not describing my understanding of the president’s knowledge, but
instead, my understanding of these matters.”I am not sure what that means exactly, but I do know this.Generally, when legal council is hired, it is
hired for the specific purpose of helping you out of trouble.It is not usually hired to help fuck you up
even further.I don’t think I would want
my lawyer volunteering to go on TV and just start riffing on what I knew and
when I knew it to have entered into the public record.However, I probably also wouldn’t hire a
lunatic like Rudy in the first place.

What cannot be disputed is that Rudy is a great addition to
the cast of the show, perhaps the best new cast member since The Mooch.The one thing about The Show is the cast
turns over quickly.Story lines are unpredictable
and characters can get written out at any time.For example, it appears that John Kelly might be on his way out shortly
as he has been reported to have referred to the President as “an idiot”, which
I think isn’t as bad as Tillerson’s “moron” comment, but still seems unlikely
to play well with Trump.With luck, we’ll
get a more exciting member of the cast in that role soon.

I think it was all summed up perfectly by the President this
afternoon.“Wait a minute. It’s actually
very simple. It’s actually very simple. But there has been a lot of
misinformation, really. People wanting to say — and I say, you know what, learn
before you speak. It’s a lot easier.”

About Me

As the singer of The Whiskey Daredevils, a group of barely talented dead beat no frills rockers, I travel a great many hours in a van. In this van, many opinions are formed that need to be shared in this space. There are many things that make sense in the van that don't make nearly as much sense in the cold harsh light of daylight. This is not my concern.